Fun And Games In Benning School For Boys
by DBunny
Summary: A short fic about what happens when young Jack O’Neill gets bored with civilian life. Jack Clone


**TITLE: ****Fun and Games in Benning School for Boys**

**AUTHOR:** Deathbunny/DBunny

**EMAIL:** Complete

**CATEGORY:** Action-Adventure

**SPOILERS:** None

**SEASON/SEQUEL INFO: **After Season 7 "Fragile Balance"

**RATING:** PG-13 (Language, Mild Sexual Innuendo)

**CONTENT WARNING: **Language

**SUMMARY:** What happens when young Jack O'Neill gets bored with civilian life.

**NOTES:**This is in response to a challenge I saw somewhere.

**DISCLAIMER:** The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

**ATTACHMENTS:**

**Fun and Games in Benning School for Boys**

Colonel Jack O'Neill sat behind his cluttered desk pecking out the finishing touches of a mission report.

He was _very_ happy that one was over.

Someone knocked on his office door.

Looking around, he pulled a black cloth drape over the classified material on his desk before calling "Enter".

"Sir?" a young airman said, leaning in through the door. "I don't mean to disturb you but…"

"Airman Dresner, right? From the mail room…"

"Yes, sir."

"Come in! Come in! I was told you were the man to see about tracking down my subscription to _Minnesota Sportsman Magazine._" Jack motioned for the young man to take the metal framed chair in front of his desk.

"That's what I'm here about, sir. Sergeant Watkins told me you asked and I started checking around."

"You found out where it's going?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack looked excited. He'd been really missing the articles lately.

"Sir, your mail has been forwarded to Fort Benning, Georgia."

Jack scowled.

"The Postmaster I talked too faxed me a copy of the forwarding request and it looks like your signature from the records."

"Fort _Benning…_" Jack mumbled, scowling.

"Yes, sir. It's an Army post…"

"I've been there." Jack took a deep breath. "How do I change it back?"

"Already done, sir. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all, and thank you, Airman."

"My pleasure, sir."

The Airman left. Jack drifted back to his report.

"Fort Benning… Hmmmm…" he mumbled.

* * *

A black '69 Camaro made a wide turn into the U-Haul storage lot parking space. Wide tires of a type of rubber not even designed when the car was made crunched the gravel as the muscle car came to a stop. The engine rumbled at an idle before coughing to a halt. The wide door opened and a hiking boot landed on the ground.

Standing, a young man in jeans and an Air Force t-shirt stood up.

The young Jonathan O'Neill looked around the lot, his shades proof against the hot Georgia sun and a serious look on his face. Still growing, he was well built and muscular, if a bit on the thin side. He had an agile, predatory look to him.

Reaching back into the car, he pulled out a small backpack and hung it over his shoulder.

He walked to the road and looked both ways down the wooded two-lane highway. Heading east, he started walking. After a few minutes, a beat up farmer's truck pulled over just ahead of him. O'Neill caught up and looked in at the driver.

An old man, still wearing the look of a military man looked back.

"Where ya' goin', son?"

"Fort Benning."

"On leave?"

"Nope, reporting for Basic Training."

The old man looked back at him with a confused look.

"You walk like a soldier already, son."

Jack looked away for a moment to hide a smirk.

"I get that a lot, sir. But here I am, on my way to Basic Training."

"Don't make no matter to me." The old man laughed with a hint of a wheeze. "Ya' wanna' ride to post?"

"That's mighty kind of you, sir." Jack said and got in.

"I's nothin'. I gotta' go on post anyway to pick up my prescriptions. I'm a vet. Korea and Vietnam."

Jack looked at the old man and nodded, biting his tongue.

* * *

O'Neill piled into line to get off the bus while a Drill Sergeant at the back of the bus bellowed "Move! Move! Move! GET OFF MY BUS!" and pushed the crowd of trainees ahead of him.Free of the bus, a pair of Drill Sergeants pushed the men towards the open first floor of a tan and red painted barracks.

"FALL IN!" one yelled. "GET in that LINE!" yelled another. "ARE YOU EYEBALLING ME PRIVATE?" screamed a third. Most were large, muscular men wearing felt "Smokey the Bear" hats low across their foreheads. A bare pistol belt around the waist only accented the V-shape of their torsos and their physical dominance over the mostly overweight and out of shape trainees.

It was loud, the NCO's were obnoxious, and the trainees, more than a little scared, moved rapidly under direction. The whole scene reeked of sweat and freshly issued uniforms.

O'Neill was the exception.

He hauled his green duffle bag, still reeking of fresh canvas and mothballs, and the small backpack he had brought with him into line, put it on the ground as the Drill Sergeants had forced the others to, and snapped to attention.

The Drill Sergeants prowled around him, snapping the slack around him into shape with a quick order, some verbal abuse, or the order to "PUSH!" which dropped the recruits to the bare concrete to do push ups. O'Neill was in the eye of the storm, no one noticed him because he wasn't a squeaky wheel…

Except for one NCO.

Standing off to the side with his arms crossed, a tall scarecrow of a man watched O'Neill closely, mentally marking down his name plucked from afar with sharp, eagle-like eyes.

* * *

O'Neill bent over his rifle.

In pieces, it was arrayed on a towel in front of him with the cleaning equipment he needed.

He looked into the lower receiver with a look of annoyance.

"What's up, man?" the black guy from two bunks over asked. "Can't get that thing clean either, huh? I don't get it…"

"Get what?" O'Neill asked, showing his annoyance.

"Why's they gotta' be so _clean_? They's just a little dust down there, nothin' major, right?"

O'Neill gave the man a warning look and the young man picked up his rifle and moved down the bay.

Looking around quickly, O'Neill picked up the rifle's cleaning rod and punched the pins out of the trigger mechanism. He stripped out the parts and scrubbed out the area underneath them.

As he reached for the trigger parts to replace them, he realized Staff Sergeant Cashion was standing behind him.

"You supposed to be doing that, Smartass?" the tall man asked.

"No, Drill Sergeant." O'Neill said, reluctantly.

"I'll tell you what… I can either report you and the armorer can put that back together or you and me make a deal."

"What deal, Drill Sergeant?"

"No one else touches that rifle until after you qualify… or not. And you voluntarily walk away if you don't qualify the first time."

O'Neill looked up at the dour older man.

"I looked at your records, son. You ain't no armorer and you ain't had no training. However, I think you may know things not in your records. IF you do know them, you ain't got to worry. If you don't know them, I want you to stop endangerin' the soldiers around you by doing dumb shit. You understand, Private?"

O'Neill nodded.

He looked down, and as SSG Cashion watched, he put the trigger group together quickly and correctly.

SSG Cashion nodded and walked away.

A few days later, SSG Cashion caught O'Neill's eye coming off the Basic Rifle Marksmanship Range with an approving nod. O'Neill had shot 39 out of 40 possible targets.

* * *

"Alright ladies, today's your chance to _shine_."

The mountain of a man doing the speaking stood, hands on hips, silhouetted by the sun rising over the trees at the far end of the Advanced Rifle Marksmanship range. His campaign hat was tilted forward across his brow, accenting the darkness of skin in his Samoan ancestry. His BDU's were immaculate, pressed, and wrapped around his body and held form-fitting by his spit-shined leather jump boots and the bare pistol belt snug around his waist.

He looked like Hercules in his prime.

"Plat-TOON…" he bellowed and watched his young charges snap to the sharp-elbowed Army version of parade rest. "A-tench-_HUT."_

"LET'S GO, DRILL SERGENT! WE GOTTA' GO, DRILL SERGENT! LET'S GO!" the recruits chorused in a loud and semi-enthusiastic tone.

"Royt… HACE!" Sergeant First Class Padua commanded. "Column-of-files-from-right to LEFT, _FORWARD!_"

The front man on the right echoed "For_WARD_!" the other three squad leaders called "Stand FAST!"

"…_HARCH!"_

Walking up behind the formation, a thin, sour-faced Drill Sergeant like a scarecrow in camouflage yelled "Smartass! Pork Chop! Fall out! Over here, _NOW! _Move! Move! Move!_"_

From the first squad, a chubby private, his helmet looking like a salad bowl flopping around on his head, and a slim young man fell out.

Standing at parade rest next to his porcine squad mate, PFC Jonathan O'Neill already had the look of a trained soldier…

…Which wasn't surprising considered the youth had a lifetime of knowledge and military experience in spite of his age.

"Get in the truck." SSG Cashion said, indicating a civilian type cargo truck.

O'Neill sprinted for the truck, rifle in hand, and ran straight up the dropped tailgate and into the covered bed. Pork Chop stopped at the back of the truck, already soaked in sweat in the early morning air, and lunged twice towards the top. O'Neill reached down and helped hoist Pork Chop into the truck.

The bed was empty with a plank floor and metal staked sides. The two young troopers bounced when the truck hit rough sections of the dirt tank trail loop that connected many of the weapon ranges. The dust wasn't bad, but the tarp that kept it down also kept air from circulating.

The men started to sweat.

"Where do you think we're going?" Pork Chop yelled over the road noise.

"Don't know."

"If I don't qualify next time…"

The truck lurched to a halt, sending the two men sliding toward the front of the bed.

SSG Cashion yanked the pins out of the tailgate and started yelling "Out! Out! Out!"

Pork Chop lumbered to the ground, O'Neill dropped from the gate, barely flexing his knees.

"Pork Chop!"

"Drill Sergeant?" Pork Chop called out, snapping to parade rest.

"Get your ass to the ammo point and wait for me."

"Moving, Drill Sergeant!"

"Smartass…" the NCO continued in a slightly quieter tone, "You want to be SF?"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant."

"Good. Your first challenge is getting Pork Chop to qualify.

The look on O'Neill's read like he wanted to say something. Something he should hold back in this situation. He couldn't.

"Drill Sergeant?"

"What?"

"Drill Sergeant, isn't that your job?"

"You want to tell _me_ what my job is, Smartass?" SSG Cashion yelled. "Drop! Do push ups!"

O'Neill dropped, shaking his head as he did, and thinking "That was stupid." He started pushing, sounding off with "ONE, Drill Sergeant. TWO, Drill Sergeant. THREE, Drill Sergeant."

SSG Cashion waited patiently until O'Neill reached forty, twice the authorized number.

"Get up!"

"Drill Sergeant, Private First Class O'Neill requests permission to recover."

SSG Cashion paused a moment.

"Recover."

O'Neill popped to his feet, sweaty but not worn out.

"O'Neill?"

"Drill Sergeant."

"The paperwork is already cut to discharge your buddy over there. He's failed to qualify twice. He's borderline on weight and PT. We're not out here for him."

O'Neill glanced at the taller man's face, now understanding.

"Move out."

"Moving, Drill Sergeant."

O'Neill and Pork Chop went out onto the firing line, a long row of 30 concrete tubes set endwise in the ground forming a series of instant foxholes along the top of a berm. In front, a series of small mounds dotted the landscape, six per hole: two 50m away, and one each at 100m, 150m, 200m, 250m, and 300m. At each far corner of the range was a tall black and white striped post. Along the far end were other posts carrying black and white signs identifying the lanes by number.

O'Neill put the half dozen magazines, loaded 20 rounds apiece, down beside foxhole 15 and motioned for Pork Chop to hop in.

Pork Chop dropped in the hole with an "Ooof!" and squelched mud up around his leather boots.

O'Neill knelt beside him.

"Pork Chop?"

The portly soldier looked up. His helmet slid back, only caught by the webbing chin strap.

"Gimme' that." O'Neill said, pointing at the other man's helmet.

Pork Chop handed it over.

O'Neill turned it upside down, reached in and unhooked a Velcro tab in the webbing and slacked it. He handed it back. The helmet now fit lower on the other man's head.

"What's your name, Pork Chop?"

"Benedict."

"Can I call you Benny? Benedict makes me think of breakfast."

Pork Chop nodded.

O'Neill pulled his own helmet off and sat it on a patch of grass beside the hole. He sat on it and considered his comrade.

"Benny… What's the problem, man? What's keeping you from knocking those things down?" he asked, indicating the target array in front of them with a wave.

"I… I… It's gotta' be my rifle."

"Let me see it."

Pork Chop handed it over.

O'Neill looked it over. He set the rear sight to the small aperture and the range dial for 0/300. He took one of the magazines and stood up.

"Can I get the 300's, Drill Sergeant?" He yelled towards SSG Cashion in the open windowed control tower.

A moment later, all 30 of the farthest targets popped up as one, small black silhouettes looking tiny in the distance.

O'Neill inserted the magazine, pulled the charging handle back and turning it loose. He shouldered the rifle, leaning slightly forward, he started at the far corner of lane one and came across rapidly.

He shot once for each target, going on if he missed. After number 20 went down, the bolt locked to the rear, empty.

"Let's see… 4, 6, and it looks like… 12 are still up." O'Neill said. "I can do better." He said and paused. "You can too, Benny."

Pork Chop craned his neck to see the far targets.

"I don't see how…"

O'Neill dropped the empty magazine out of the rifle by hitting the magazine catch with his trigger finger.

"You've got a good rifle. You've got it zeroed properly. All you have to do is put the sights on the target and pull the trigger."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is, Benny. It's not that hard. Why do you find it hard?"

"I… I… I just _worry_ and then I _miss_."

O'Neill nodded understandingly.

"Here you go." He said, handing back the rifle. "Can I get the whole array up, Drill Sergeant?" he yelled towards the tower.

The entire array came up, a field of 180 targets.

"Wait a second." O'Neill said, and jogged back to the ammo point. He returned with two more magazines and his own rifle.

"Benny?"

"Yeah."

"This…" O'Neill indicated with a wide wave of the arm, "Is a target rich environment. We are going to knock down _all_ of them… For fun."

Pork Chop looked at him like he'd flipped.

"I'll shoot one, then you'll shoot one at the same range. When one of us misses, the other one gets to choose. OK?"

Pork Chop nodded.

"We'll start with these couple of lanes, then we'll move down to firing points two and four and shoot from the prone. I'll choose first."

O'Neill hopped into the next hole, straightened his sandbags, and loaded his rifle.

"We'll start easy. 50m-Right in your own lane."

O'Neill's little 50m head-and-shoulders target dropped, followed a split second later by Pork Chops.

"Okay… 150m target, one lane over."

* * *

O'Neill lined up for chow with the rest of his platoon. Green cardboard trays quickly filled with a basic meat and potatoes plus fruit meal served out of steaming aluminum containers painted OD green. Every part of the menu was recognizable if a little crudely made.

Carrying his tray in both hands, O'Neill left the line and was headed towards a small group of soldiers he chummed with.

"Smartass." SSG Cashion yelled from where he stood behind the chow line.

"Moving, Drill Sergeant." O'Neill called and walked quickly towards the NCO.

"Drill Sergeant?" O'Neill said when he got close.

"Pork Chop qualified." The tall soldier said without emotion. "Go eat."

"Moving, Drill Sergeant." O'Neill said and turned. Hidden from SSG Cashion, the young soldier grinned.

* * *

He heard the Drill Sergeant coming down the bay and woke. Feigning sleep, he waited.

"O'Neill, outta' the rack." SFC Padua said at conversational amplitude.

O'Neill sat up on the edge of his bunk and ran his hand across his stubbly scalp.

"You're uncle is here to see you. He's down in the orderly room." SFC Padua turned to leave. "I don't know who he is, but the Post Commander's Aide de Camp walked him in."

O'Neill mumbled "Who the hell?" as he slid on his running shoes.

O'Neill pushed open the door and spotted the Company XO at the desk dressed in PT uniform,. No one else was visible, but the CO's office door was closed and light was visible under it.

"Report to the Commander." The XO said, stifling a yawn.

O'Neill walked to the door, rapped loudly three times, and stood at attention in front of it.

"Enter." The CO yelled.

O'Neill opened the door, stepped through, closed the door, marched to a point six feet from the Commander's desk, brought his hand up in a sharp, cocked salute, and said "Sir, Private First Class Jonathan O'Neill reporting as ordered."

The Captain returned his salute and O'Neill dropped his.

"At ease, PFC."

Two people sat on the sofa along the wall, in shadows because only the Commander's desk light was on. O'Neill saw them out of the corner of his eye.

"Captain?" O'Neill heard in his own familiar voice.

Breaking military discipline, O'Neill turned towards the voice.

Jack O'Neill, _Colonel_, US Air Force, leant into the desk lamp's cone of light,

The Captain stood up and left.

"I thought we agreed not to keep in touch?" O'Neill asked, abandoning any pretense of parade rest.

"Hey! I didn't say…"

O'Neill shot the older version a cross look.

"Look, I thought you were going to do the high school thing and…"

"I graduated early." O'Neill shrugged. "The girls were… _girls_."

"Babe magnet?"

"Totally. Should have seen my pre-enlistment bash. Cheerleaders, chocolate syrup…"

Jack held up his hand. "Too young for me."

"_College_ cheerleaders, mostly."

"Oh." Jack shrugged. "You'll have to tell me later…" Jack looked back at the other person on the couch. "Right now though…"

"I got _bored_." O'Neill explained. "You know how it is. You get that _rush_ and there's nothing else… _legal…_ that's anything like it."

"Yes, but the _Army?"_

"Remember when we ran into Harlan outside the… No, you wouldn't… that was _me._ Loki hadn't gotten around to returning _you_ yet._" _O'Neill put his hands on his hips and looked around. "Look, even with all the black ops we've done and all the top secret compartmentalization, it's still a small community in the Air Force. Running into Harlan at the Class Six sucked. I mean, here's a guy I… _we_ have known for years… a buddy… saved my… _our_ asses more than once and I can't say a damn thing to him. I ask how someone's kids are… or, hell, just if they want to catch a brew with me and… You get the picture."

"That is kind of harsh."

"So, I picked the Army. They're giving contracts now that guarantee me a chance at testing for Special Forces. I don't run into too many old friends. I get a chance to do what we're good at. Besides, the whole brainless jarhead thing isn't for me and the Navy enlisted mess…"

"Really sucks. Yeah, I know." Jack stood up and walked over to the Captain's desk and sat down. He put his boots up on the desk and leaned back, hands behind his head.

"Look, I can at least get you a... an Academy slot or something." He looked at the younger version of himself and read the look there. "No, we're not ring knocker material."

"I could, if I wanted to." O'Neill argued.

"Still… the academic bullshit."

"Yeah, you're right."

"A direct commission?"

"Too many questions I can't really answer. I mean, before, ya'know, the _incident_, I have no life of my own that I can use. _Enlisting_ was hard enough without the people to back up the paper trail the Air Force created for me. The TSBI is going to be a nightmare, when it comes down to that."

"I can have that taken care of."

Young O'Neill gave Jack a questioning smirk.

"Hey! Being a Colonel has its privileges." Jack shrugged. "I'll ask Hammond."

"O'Neill raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"So, you're OK with this?" Jack said, indicating the office with a wave.

O'Neill sucked air in through his teeth. "Yeah. I'd be the Distinguished Honor Grad, but I'm not so big on drill and ceremony."

"Yeah. I never was."

"Airborne school next."

"Watch your…"

"Knees. I know. It's kind of nice not having them ache anymore."

"Look, if there's anything you need done…"

"Call you?" O'Neill said, confused.

"No. But I'll leave word with the Daniel and Sam to help you out."

"Too weird?"

"Too weird."

The older Jack got up to leave. He opened the door and waited with his hand on the knob.

"About the magazines…"

"Hey, I'm a young man. I'm still old enough to…"

"No! No! No! The _fishing_ magazines."

"Ummm… Yeah. You can have those back. I've been a bit too busy to fish."

"Oh, no you haven't." Jack said with a grin. "I've been getting _your_ mail and it's a damn good thing I'm no longer married or I'd be getting divorced if Sara read those."

"Dana?"

"She sent her panties and uh…"

"She likes older guys…"

Jack shook his head and walked out.

Teal'c stood up from the couch.

"It was nice to meet you again, O'Neill."

"Likewise."

Teal'c followed Jack out.


End file.
